


A Change of Perspective

by mogwai_do



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: BDSM, Knifeplay, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: A PWP with no redeeming features. I'm messing with canon I know; I couldn't decide whether this should be NTB universe or what... but then I mentioned Mac so...  Say it's after One Minute To Midnight and the fact that Kronos thought Methos was dead was due to the death of the other 'Methos' in the Messenger.  Does that work?  I don't know.  You tell me.





	A Change of Perspective

"What do you want?" The voice was deep, velvety and so very familiar.

Kronos shivered involuntarily as the low, seductive tone stirred crystal clear memories of millennia past. It was too soon; he couldn't admit to his need yet, not until he was sure. He gave his lover a frank appraisal.

Methos stood tall before him, emphasising the difference in their heights. Strong and proud - this was how he was meant to be. Kronos still couldn't understand why his brother felt the need to hide it. This wasn't the anxious lover of mortals like that pathetic, sickly little thing he'd met in Athens. Nor was it the cynical grad student he played so well.

This was Methos - eldest of them all, prince among princes, veils and masks cast aside, every inch radiating the power he had once worn so openly. Kronos felt his body react to the vision, betraying his need, his want, and knew that Methos was aware of his state.

Methos' mouth twisted into a smile and he lifted his arms from his sides, inviting further scrutiny. Even disguised by the baggy sweater and loose jeans, Kronos could still make out the strong, lean lines he had once known so intimately. How many millennia had it been since they had stood before each other thus? Power and need subordinate to will and fed by want. A thousand years, four thousand, and nothing had changed, nothing ever would.

What do you want?

It was a question he had never been able to answer, not until it had answered itself. As it always did, his body tried to force his tongue, wanting nothing more than to make an end of this torture before it had even truly begun. As always he swallowed the words, perversely driving his arousal higher with its denial. A stray thought wished he'd planned this encounter and worn looser jeans.

Methos seemed to see his brother's thoughts as easily as if his skull were made of glass, and the glitter of amusement in his cat-gold eyes told Kronos that his brother was equally aware of his physical state. With a swift, silent glide Methos was suddenly mere inches from Kronos and the heat, the sheer power radiating from him... Kronos strangled the sudden, urgent imperative to come then and there. He wanted, needed, more than that.

Then Methos was leaning in close, pressing against him, hard body to hard body, like to like. "What do you want?" the low tones insinuated themselves into his hind-brain as warm breath ghosted across his skin and before he could think to stop it, he spoke.

"I..."

Kronos' breath left him in a rush as he was slammed back against the wall. That frighteningly compelling voice whispered by his ear, "How long has it been little brother? Has it really been all that time? I'm flattered."

The quiet snick of a knife barely registered in his consciousness; he hadn't meant to give away so much, not so soon. The coolness of steel against his skin brought Kronos some measure of physical awareness beyond his aching arousal and his brother's heat. The flat of the blade slid beneath his shirt, its edge teasing his skin as it sliced easily through the cloth.

"Nice jacket, brother, it'd be a shame to ruin it."

The actions seemed to come independent of any will of his own, obeying his brother's voice directly; the jacket was shrugged from his shoulders to hit the floor with a heavy thud. The remains of his t-shirt fluttered down to join it shortly thereafter.

Half-naked, but not the half that so desperately wanted to be; Kronos waited for the touch of his brother's mouth and he wasn't disappointed. A soft, wet tongue played counterpoint to the touch of the cold, sharp blade as both traced intricate patterns across his torso. They took turns teasing his nipples, switching back and forth, until the conflicting sensations nearly drove him mad. He writhed beneath the dual touch, body tensing in anticipation of pain that never came, the sharp blade never breaking the skin.

Then the knife was gone, he thought he heard the clatter as it hit the floor, but he couldn't have cared less because at that moment Methos bit down hard, drawing blood. Kronos hissed at the unexpected pain and acquiesced to his body's demands for contact. He slid his fingers into the short spikes of Methos' hair, absently regretting the loss of so convenient a handhold. He sensed more than saw the long arms come up to brace against the wall on either side of him as that clever mouth exercised its skill.

Methos' tongue soothed the no-longer injured nipple and then it began to move upwards accompanied by teeth. The wet trail burned like pitch on water, sharp bites on the edge of pain and a liquid warmth that took his arousal to boiling point and kept it there. Kronos began to lose all sense of where exactly his brother was tending; his whole body seemed to feel it. A hard bite at his throat and he felt his Quickening rush to the wound only to be met by the crackle and snap of another, stronger force. Kronos groaned aloud and his knees threatened to give way. It had been _far_ too long.

Methos raised his head; Kronos' blood and his own from his bitten lip darkened a feral smile. Kronos gasped at the hunger it sparked low in his belly and Methos took the opportunity for a fierce kiss. The familiar copper tang of blood and the strange sweetness of Methos combining on Kronos' tongue sparked memories so ancient they seemed almost dreams. They all had faces they'd prefer the world didn't see, but why Methos denied it this magnificent sight Kronos couldn't comprehend. Fractured pools of dark and light focused on him with an intensity that shivered down his spine and Kronos abruptly realised that the time for play was over.

"Get those off."

Kronos told himself he only did it because the jeans were uncomfortable and because he wanted the contact with his lover. But he hadn't lived so long without learning to recognise denial when he saw it, even in himself. Kronos didn't watch his brother strip; his control was fragile enough as it was and he had a feeling he'd need it all before the end of the night.

Hands on his arms made him raise his head to see Methos, naked, and every bit as aroused as he was. Pale, virtually hairless skin, so smooth, begging to be touched, caressed, marked, branded and claimed by Kronos alone. Well-defined muscles that had to be hidden beneath baggy clothing before the illusion of harmlessness could be crafted. Long, hard cock, fully erect and flushed with the force of his arousal. A single bead of liquid slid from the tip and Kronos fought the urge to go down on his knees and taste it. But no, Methos was moving, pushing him back and pulling him down and Kronos found himself distracted by the casually electric touch of their bodies as they met.

Kronos groaned in satisfaction when he felt Methos cover him, a heavy, grounding weight. Their cocks slid together without direction as their mouths renewed their acquaintance with a determined thoroughness.

When they broke for air Kronos took advantage of the movement to make his mark, teeth laying claim to Methos' vulnerable throat. The hiss of indrawn breath and the tilt of the head to allow greater access had Kronos offering thanks to gods he hadn't even believed in when he was mortal. How could he have forgotten this - when Methos' beauty in his unguarded moments was the only gift he had found of true worth in his four thousand year existence.

Then a kiss, deep and hot, stealing his breath and what little soul he had left. But that wasn't a problem, he always got it back in the end and he could think of no better safe-keeping than with his brother.

Methos was moving sinuously against him, sweat-dampened skin slicking the motion, but it was neither hard enough nor fast enough to bring satisfaction. Then he was moving downward, teasing with the skill of one who had long ago perfected the art of torture, and Kronos gave himself up to his brother's care.

Warm breath blowing lightly through the tight curls at his groin was Kronos' first coherent sense, dragging all of his awareness down to that aching need. A hot, wet tongue slid around the base of his cock and Kronos clenched his fists to stop himself from just grabbing for Methos and forcing his actions. That never went well.

As if aware of his thoughts, Methos raised his head to meet Kronos' gaze. A curious, characteristic tilt to the head and a deepening of the gold in his eyes warned Kronos to brace himself. A wicked smile then Methos' tongue snaked out and he slowly drew it up the underside of Kronos' cock, holding his brother's eyes all the way, before flicking it lightly over the weeping tip. Kronos couldn't tear his eyes from Methos'; the hair was all wrong but this was his brother, fierce and regal and completely aware of his power. His voice when he spoke was that same mixture of arrogant intelligence and feral lust.

"Forgotten your lines brother? Here, let me help you."

Methos swooped quickly down and engulfed Kronos' entire length in one go, then slowly drew back up its length, his tongue tracing patterns of need across the too-hot flesh. Kronos arched up into that terrible pleasure, but before he could fully appreciate it, the wet heat was gone and Methos was watching him through demon eyes.

"This is where you tell me I'm beautiful," the whisper was almost a threat. "That you don't just want me - you _need_ me."

Not waiting for a response, Methos swallowed him again and Kronos choked on a breath. He was vaguely aware of Methos' hand moving at the edge of his vision, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This was Methos - his brother, his lover, the flipside of his soul. Anything he wanted to do he could, even kill him, but Methos wouldn't do that - he was loyal that way.

He groaned brokenly as a slick finger eased inside him, he was drowning in sensations not felt in millennia yet so very familiar. Methos swallowed around his cock as a second finger joined the first, stretching the tight muscle with just enough force to show how careful he truly was.

Such a paradox his brother - voice and face so fierce, yet his touch was so gentle. They knew each other too well. Methos understood Kronos, knew what he needed, what he craved... what he feared. And, against all probability, Kronos trusted his brother with that knowledge. Deceptive, manipulative and deadly, yet Methos would never use that knowledge against Kronos. It was a strange kind of selfless loyalty that was impossible to credit in the ultimate survivor... unless he gifted you with it. Methos' love was a peculiar creature, elusive like the man himself, yet undeniable.

Millennia ago it had surprised the hell out of Kronos to realise that Methos loved him, though coming on the heels of the discovery of his own love for his brother it had, perhaps, not been so great a shock as it otherwise might. It had only later occurred to him that the one revelation had been dependent on the other, though which owed its existence to which he couldn't have said.

Three thousand years later he was singularly unsurprised to find the feelings as strong as they had always been. They had never openly admitted anything and only rarely spoken of it between themselves, both preferring to let actions take the place of words. Still, every now and then the words were needed, like lancing a wound, exposing a vulnerability; it was difficult, near impossible in a way that physical pain could never approach, but it had to be done.

Kronos remained passive as Methos drew his legs up and positioned himself; his blood was pounding hard through his veins in anticipation, then Methos was leaning over him, cock pressing entry.

"You remember what to say now, don't you?" Methos' voice was no more than a whisper, but no less powerful for all that.

Kronos bit his lip hard, fighting against himself with all the ferocity with which he fought others. There was a theatrically disappointed sigh and Methos drove all the way in, ignoring Kronos' cry of pain and the arching of his body against the sudden shock of invasion. Then, contradictorially, he waited patiently for Kronos to adjust, showing no visible sign of strain despite the sweat glistening on the pale skin.

Kronos gulped air, growing accustomed once again to the feel of his brother inside him; how many times had he wanted this over the course of three millennia? There had been no-one else, no-one he could trust, no-one he could love. Just Methos, always and only Methos.

Slowly, Kronos felt himself relax into the sensations of warmth and fullness, now consciously acknowledging the surrender of the control he had thrown away in that first moment of meeting. Then Methos was moving, pulling out until only the tip of his cock remained within the tight channel. Instead of the expected thrust though, Methos remained absolutely still, watching his brother with a certain sadistic amusement.

"I could make you say it, you know," Methos' tone was full of wicked delight. "Do you want to say it?"

Kronos bit off a harsh curse in an ancient language that only made Methos' smile deepen. Moments passed and still he did not move. Kronos growled something unintelligible and tried to move against his brother, to take him back inside and fill that aching emptiness. It didn't work and Methos' laugh was an almost merry sound. With a chuckle he leaned forward to capture Kronos' mouth in a strangely gentle kiss, leaving him dizzy, confused and desperate.

Kronos tried to shift again, but he had no leverage and Methos remained unattainable. Another kiss and then Methos was nuzzling the skin of his throat like some affectionate jungle cat. Kronos moaned, momentarily forgetting his need in that simple pleasure, and as if that were the signal he had been waiting for, Methos began to slowly push back inside him. Kronos moaned again and brought his hands up to stroke across the broad planes of his lover's back in encouragement.

Methos' thrusts were ruthlessly slow and gentle and it wasn't long before Kronos began to wish his lover had decided on a different approach - pain was so much easier to fight than pleasure. Softly, so softly. It was like drowning in warm honey, sweet and strong, while Methos whispered ghostly kisses over his skin. It was perfect and incomplete. He could stay just like this forever, except he wanted more and however he tried to persuade his lover, Methos steadfastly refused to give it. Like fighting smoke, forever beyond his grasp.

It _was_ like drowning; he couldn't breathe for the sensations swamping him, lacking the will to escape this pleasurable suffocation yet tempted by the knowledge of the greater ecstasy beyond it. Methos was the benevolent tyrant, completely ruthless in the pursuit of his brother's pleasure yet denying him that ultimate ecstasy.

"You bastard!" he growled breathlessly.

Methos stilled his thrusts and raised his head at that, watching his brother with the cold eyes of a predator. Kronos knew that look, though it had rarely been turned on him - on Caspian, on others of their kind, on the many hapless mortals that had ended their pitiful lives under the attentions of the Horsemen - but not on him. It was the side of his brother he had always most admired; even now, as it chilled him and his arousal seemed a thing far distant, he couldn't help but love it.

Methos' face was closed to him. They'd been together so long they could discern each other's moods with unthinking ease, but not this one. Unpredictable and deadly, Kronos couldn't even guess at the thoughts passing behind those glittering eyes. Fear skittered over the frayed ends of his control - did he _really_ know his brother?

Then Methos leaned back, distancing himself without withdrawing, and his voice when he spoke was deep and dark. "I thought you liked me like that." 

Kronos was caught in the spell, like some small, helpless creature waiting for the cobra to strike. Dangerous, dangerous man.

"I do." His voice was hoarse, but Methos' expression didn't alter. Kronos reached out almost tentatively and brushed his fingers over one sharp cheekbone.

Methos allowed the caress, but his mouth twisted in a smile of cruel mockery, "Not good enough, brother."

Gold-flecked eyes glittered pure wickedness as Methos' mouth curved up into the sort of evil grin Kronos would normally be envious of, and Methos leaned forward until he was a bare breath from Kronos' face, eyes shining darkly.

"I think you need a little more encouragement, brother," Methos whispered against Kronos' lips. Kronos strained upward, trying to capture his brother's mouth, but Methos withdrew slowly, always staying just barely out of reach.

Kronos fell back and closed his eyes, knowing all too well the demon he had unleashed. There was a moment of stillness and then Methos began to move again, his thrusts lazy and possessive. No haste, no urgency, no force, nothing he could fight against as Methos claimed him relentlessly, totally.

Kronos groaned; he was pinned and helpless - not a position he relished normally. Methos held absolute control and he used it as he always had - ruthlessly. He wanted what he wanted and he would have it; he would not be satisfied until he got it... and neither would Kronos.

Such a delicate balance between them Kronos' will was law, but he led only so long as Methos followed. Who then held the ultimate control? Kronos had always been aware of the power that had been placed in his hands with Methos' loyalty, what he had been entrusted with. Kronos could never have given himself to a lesser creature. Two halves of the same invincible whole; each holding in safe-keeping that little part of the other that they didn't want the world to see; only together did they stand revealed.

The role reversal was not the turnabout it seemed to be; the balance had always been far more equal than its appearance, something Caspian had never quite grasped. Methos very rarely revealed the power he possessed; those moments when he did had to be taken for all they were worth. It was always the same; the one called and the other answered with whatever was needed. Methos' power was no illusion and likewise Kronos' submission was more than just a token gesture - it had to be. 

Kronos opened his eyes to meet the ever-changing regard of his brother and was once again eerily certain that Methos had seen every thought that had passed through his lust-muddled mind. Enough was enough - he needed more than this. He had faced armies and won, he would not be defeated by mere words.

"I..." The words wouldn't come and Kronos growled deep in his throat in frustration. He forced himself to breathe past the choking restriction - Methos always helped him eventually.

"What do you want?" The simple, complicated question voiced in that dangerous velvet tone slithered over his overheated skin and seeped inside him, adding its power to the driving physical need.

"You... I want you."

"Why?" A steely demand that reached past every defence he had ever built with terrifying ease and triggered the only response that would satisfy.

"I... love you." No more than a dry hiss of shaped breath as some unnamed pressure was released, but it was enough. The sun-bright smile that appeared on his lover's face was gently mocking in a way that was all too familiar.

"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

Condescending bastard. He'd got what he wanted, what Kronos needed; he didn't have to be so smug about it and it certainly didn't mean Kronos actually had to appear grateful for it.

"Then again, maybe it was." Methos' voice was teasing as he wrapped a hand around Kronos' neglected erection. Kronos hissed loudly; he wanted to be angry to ease that terrible feeling of weakness, but it simply wasn't possible with Methos' skilled hand doing obscenely good things to his cock.

"Alright, you win," Kronos croaked grudgingly.

"Oh good. What do I win?" Methos' tone was playful. "Oh wait, I know," he said brightly and before Kronos could growl a singularly unflattering comment, Methos thrust _hard_.

Kronos choked on a gasp, as every sensation seemed to suddenly slam into him with his brother's cock, a runaway emotional freight train. He burned with too-long-delayed need and could only groan in appreciation when, instead of stopping as he had almost expected, Methos finally got down to business, thrusting hard and fast and so satisfyingly.

Methos' clever mouth stole his air, while the touch of his hand on Kronos' cock stole his sense. The smooth, hard thrusts sent fireworks coiling through his blood until Kronos could feel the approach of his climax like an oncoming avalanche.

Methos never broke the claim he had over his brother's mouth and Kronos was struggling now, desperate for the air Methos gave him. He couldn't breathe, but Methos was breathing for him, kiss of life, kiss of Death. Kronos strove against the creeping lassitude in his limbs and felt the irresistible surge of his orgasm pick him up and sweep him into darkness, dimly aware of Methos' cry of release mingling with his own in an elemental harmony. Then the greater darkness welcomed him home.

*****

"Hey, Adam," Joe called as the lanky Immortal entered the just-opened bar.

"Joe," Methos acknowledged as he ambled over to the bar and helped himself to a beer.

Joe shook his head at his friend's casual manner. The ancient Immortal had been missing for months, disappearing without trace after the Galati affair had forced him into the middle of the Watcher/Immortal conflict. Since then there had been no letter, no phone call, no clue. The Highlander had been less bothered than Joe about Methos' disappearance, but then Mac could wait indefinitely for the old man to return, Joe was on limited time.

For the first month he'd been terrified the old man would lose his head; Methos was always the first to admit that his sword skills were somewhat rusty. Then, after the first month had passed and there had been no report of any massive Quickenings, Joe had begun to realise that his worry was rather pointless - the man had survived fifty centuries after all, he wasn't going to be getting reckless at this late stage.

"Find what you were looking for?" he inquired casually.

Adam looked up and tilted his head consideringly. "I suppose so," he allowed eventually. "I think I got a little too caught up in Adam Pierson, Watcher. It was time to touch base with Methos the Immortal. The change of perspective... helped. So, Adam is now looking for a new job." Methos gave Joe a speculative look and a grin, "Need a new bartender, Joe?"

Joe shook his head and smiled at the young-seeming Immortal; why he felt so protective of the man he really couldn't understand, but he did. Maybe it was because he had known 'Adam' first; maybe it was because Methos always seemed physically insignificant next to the powerhouse Immortals like Mac; or maybe it was just the fact that, Immortality aside, Methos wasn't really all that different from Adam Pierson after all.

Joe suddenly remembered one of the reasons why he'd wanted to see the old man. "Oh, Adam. Something came for you while you were away. Watcher stuff I think, sent it here since you're between abodes. Got it in the back."

Methos raised an eyebrow in query, "Oh? Can't imagine what they'd be sending me. We didn't exactly part on the best of terms."

Joe shrugged and motioned with his head towards the office and Adam slid off his stool to follow. In the back room, Joe rummaged through one of the cupboards and quickly came up with a large parcel box, which he deposited on the desk. Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise and moved towards it, picking it up carefully. It was heavy as well as large.

He twisted the box so he could read the mailing address and Joe was surprised to see the man begin to smile.

"What? You recognise the handwriting? Who's it from?" Joe had been sitting on that box for the last month and his curiosity had nearly got the better of him several times.

Methos put the box back on the desk and began rummaging through the drawers for scissors to cut the tape sealing it. Joe watched in growing frustration when Adam began to carefully cut the tape, still without answering his questions.

"What is it? Journals or something?" Joe prodded, determined to get some response from the infuriating Immortal.

The last of the tape was removed and nimble fingers began to ease the lid off. Joe leaned forward to see better.

Tissue paper. Deep blue tissue paper.

Then hands pushed it carefully aside to reveal... a leather jacket. Joe registered Methos' startled laugh as he catalogued the contents of the box. A black leather jacket - quite plain, waist length, heavy too from the look of it, good quality and expensive. No note or card saying who it was from though. A pale hand caressed the leather and Joe looked up to see a rather rare and surprising sight; Methos was smiling with what appeared to be genuine good humour. Joe was about to speak again when Methos abruptly snatched the jacket from the box and held it up for inspection then just as quickly he put it down again. Still smiling, Methos stripped off the long coat that hid his sword and tossed it carelessly over a nearby chair. Then he was pulling the jacket on with all the excitement of a child at Christmas. A few experimental swings of his arms and Methos appeared satisfied that it didn't bind his movement and he began to fuss with the pockets, inside and out, inspecting his gift with the air of a man well-pleased.

Finally he finished the examination of his present and looked at Joe. Not what Joe would have expected to see Adam wearing, but it did suit him in an odd sort of way. Methos noticed the Watcher waiting with a somewhat strained patience for Methos to fill him in and out of sheer perversity he waited for the mortal to ask again.

"Well," Joe demanded, exasperated. "I take it you know who sent you this."

"Yup," Methos replied and chuckled as Joe fixed him with a glare before deciding he'd had his fun with the Watcher. "It's a gift from an old friend I happened to meet when I was out and about. We exchanged pleasantries, reminisced about old times, stuff like that."

Joe had been curious about the parcel, but that was nothing next to the possibility of finding out a little more about the secretive eldest Immortal. " _Old_ friend? Who was it? Anyone I'd know?"

Methos grinned, "Now, now, Joe. That's nosy. He's in the Chronicles under one of his aliases and that, my friend, is all I shall reveal."

Joe scowled at the absurdly cheerful Immortal now rummaging through the pockets of his long coat and transferring their contents to his new jacket. Joe was a little surprised when he caught a glimpse of a rather business-like gun disappearing into one of the internal pockets, but he refrained from comment. The sword obviously wouldn't fit, but Methos simply arranged the long coat over his arm in such a way as to hide the blade and still make it easily accessible should he need it. Then he was moving to the door.

"Wait a minute," Joe called as Methos opened the door. "How'd he know to send it here?"

Methos smiled, "He knows I'm Adam Pierson and a Watcher. It's not that difficult to work it out from there."

Joe put aside the question of accessing Watcher information for the time being and instead asked the other question that bothered him, "Adam Pierson? Not Methos? Does he know who you really are?"

Methos turned to look back over his shoulder at the mortal and his lips curved up into a slightly unsettling smile. "Yes. Oh yes."

And the door swung shut behind him.


End file.
